


Five Times Dean Took John's Shit, And One Time He Didn't

by joinallthefandoms



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Child Abuse, Kid Fic, Protective Bobby Singer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-14 20:18:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2201718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joinallthefandoms/pseuds/joinallthefandoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has to deal with a lot of John's shit, and this is a compilation of these times .<br/>I suck at summaries sorry</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Beating

John stumbled into the house, slamming the door behind him. An eight- year old Dean sat up immediately, taking great care not to disturb his brother Sam, who was sleeping just next to him. Dean opened his door as quietly as possible and closed the door behind him. He came down the stairs quietly but confidently, anger fueling every step. Dad did this every other week: he left Dean and Sam in the house and went on drinking binges for days at a time.

Mary, Dean's mom, had left when he was four years old and Sammy just an infant, because she was sick of having to deal with John's drinking. This, of course, caused him to drink more and more. There were times when they thought things would turn around; John would get a job for about a week, buy groceries, and take the boys to ball games. And then they'd fall into the same old routine. Dean would scrape up anything they had in the kitchen, sometimes going days without eating in order to make sure that Sammy did. Sometimes he'd steal from the neighbors. Sometimes he'd steal from the supermarket. It really wasn't his fault that the neighborhood people classified him as a "bad kid", he was just trying to survive.

Dean tentatively opened the kitchen door, wincing as a particularly loud growl of his stomach alerted John of his presence. 

"What are you doin' up, boy?" John slurred, taking a large gulp of what was probably his third or fourth bottle of whiskey. 

"Where have you been, Dad?" Dean defiantly asked, summoning every ounce of courage he possessed. "It's been a week since you've been home."

"It's none of your damn business where I've been," John growled. "I'm a grown man and I can leave if I want to."

"Not when you have a starving four year old son!" Dean exclaimed, taking care not too raise his voice too loud, lest he wake Sammy. 

John glared. "You have some fucking attitude, boy." He began undoing his belt with clumsy, uncoordinated fingers. Dean felt fear paralyze him; Dad had never hit him before. 

"Get over here and take off your shirt," John angrily said, slipping off his chair sloppily. 

"Yes, sir," Dean muttered, trying so hard to be a big boy and not let fear slur his words. He took off his way-too-big AC/DC shirt and bared his back to his father. 

 _THWACK._ Dean's eyes watered and he bit back a scream. He wasn't going to wake Sammy because then his brother would realize just how hungry he was and not be able to get back to sleep. 

 _THWACK._ This time the buckle caught him just left of his spine and Dean bit so hard into his lower lip that it began to bleed. 

_THAWCK. THWACK. THWACK. THWACK. THWACK._

Tears were falling freely down the child's face and he was clenching his fists so hard that he was afraid they'd break. Suddenly, he heard a thump behind him and he turned to find that his Dad had passed out. Dean sighed in relief and, with trembling hands, poured the rest of the whiskey down the kitchen sink. He grabbed a washcloth from the drawer, soaked it in cold water (Dad hadn't paid the heating bill) and gingerly pressed it to his back. He squealed as loudly as he dared as the cuts stung at the cold touch. Wincing as the rough fabric irritated the wounds, Dean pulled the shirt back over his head. He didn't want Sammy asking questions. 

Dean looked to the clock, which read 11:00. Reaching into John's pocket, Dean retrieved five dollars. He put a couch pillow under his dad's head, hoping that he would still be out by the time he got back, put on his sneakers, and slipped out the door. 

Dean arrived at the 24-hour supermarket five minutes later. He had done this so many times that the darkness didn't even faze him, nor did the glares he got from the cashiers as he walked through the door. Grinning broadly at the sale sign, Dean grabbed five TV dinners for himself and Sammy for the week and paid for them. The walk home was done in much better spirits, although the pain in his back kind of took away from the euphoria of having food. Dean slipped back home, relieved that John was still asleep, and placed the food in the freezer. He slipped into bed five minutes later, band aids strewn haphazardly across his back, as he couldn't see nor reach all his wounds.

As he slept (on his stomach), some blood seeped through the ninja turtle band aids and stained one of his three good shirts. 


	2. The Teacher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has never excelled academically, and as a result, very few of his teachers like him, but his PE teacher notices something amiss the day after Dean's first beating.

Coach Benny watched as his pupils ran laps around the stuffy, overheated gym. As usual, Jo and her clique were lagging and Kevin was practically rolling over with exhaustion, but the Coach didn't care enough to intervene. Something was amiss, however, and the man couldn't put his finger on it. 

The answer came in the form of Dean Winchester, who walked in five minutes late with scruffy hair, his usual Black Sabbath shirt, and a pair of gym shorts. His backpack, which probably consisted of a single stolen library book, was strung haphazardly across his shoulder, rather than his back. He looked very out of sorts, especially considering he was typically the first one to school. Dean dropped his bag on the bleachers and started his laps, quickly surpassing everyone. What was strange though, is that he didn't gloat as he usually did. He didn't offer the group of girls a cocky grin as he passed them. Dean looked as solemn as the Coach had ever seen him, and it was the most concerned he had felt about a student in years. 

While his classmates took their seats on the floor, Dean ran a couple extra laps to compensate for those he had missed. He was barely panting but he still had a pained expression on his face. Coach Benny's bad feeling only worsened as he saw Dean grimace as he finished his last lap. He took a seat at the very back, another unusual display of shyness, and stayed quiet throughout the lecture on the rules of dodgeball. Benny watched carefully for the boy's reaction, as dodgeball was his favorite and best sport, but he said nothing. Coach decided that they would have to have a talk after class. 

"Divide into two teams on opposite sides of the gym," Coach called, trailing back over to the sidelines. The kids lazily obeyed, typically falling into a girls vs. boys arrangement. Normally, Dean would play with the girls in an attempt to impress them, but today he absentmindedly strayed over to the boys side. The game commenced and Dean didn't even run for the balls. His friends would normally be concerned, but they were too preoccupied to notice his weird behavior. 

Dean stayed at the back of the pack until everybody had been eliminated but him. Now it was just him and Bella, the pitcher for the girls' softball time. Dean was planning on just taking the hit and going to sit down, but he tripped and accidentally turned at the last second and the ball hit his bare back. He let out an involuntary scream of pain as the rough rubber made stinging contact with his cuts and bruises, and tears welled in his eyes. 

"Don't be such a baby!" Bella called, high-fiving her teammates. Dean walked as stoically as possible to the locker room as another game commenced in his absence. Curious and slightly concerned, the Coach followed him discreetly after a few minutes.

The coach was most disturbed to be first greeted by the sound of Dean's crying. He was much more disturbed, however, when he saw the boy surveying his back in the mirror. His back was angry with welts and bruises, most of which had been irritated by the hit to his back. 

"Winchester?" Coach called, locking the door behind him. He didn't want any of Dean's classmates to see him like this. 

Dean turned in fear, absolute horror painting his face when he saw Benny. "Coach! It's not what it looks like."

"It looks like you've been beaten, Dean," Coach gingerly said, taking a few steps toward his pupil in what he hoped was a non-threatening manner. 

"I haven't," Dean automatically said, already pulling his shirt over his head. 

"Son, you have to tell me who did this to you," Coach said, genuine concern and pity tearing at his heart. He knew very little about Dean's life other than what he had heard from other teachers. They often said that he was bright but his lack of homework and accumulation of absences prevented him from doing well. They also pointed out that whenever Dean was absent, his little brother Sam was too. Their father was the listed emergency contact, but when Sammy had thrown up in the nurse's office and when Dean got detention for fighting, he never picked up the phone. Also, he had never attended a school event, be it a PTA or parent teacher meeting. Coach had a pretty good idea of who did it, but he needed to hear it from Dean before he could get Social Services involved.

"No one," Dean said defensively. "I fell off my bike and scraped my back."

"Those are more than a couple scrapes, kid," Benny pointed out. 

"I'm fine," Dean blanched, a sheen of sweat forming on his forehead. 

"Dean-" Coach started

"Coach, please," Dean pleaded. "No one hurt me, I swear."

Benny didn't believe him, but there was nothing he could do if Dean kept refusing this. "At least let me take you to the nurse-"

"No!" Dean exclaimed. 

Coach sighed. "Fine, but at least let me fix you up. I promise I won't tell anyone, okay?"

"You promise promise?" Dean tentatively asked, his face still painted with doubt. 

"Yes," Coach sighed. Dean nodded and, wincing, took off his shirt. The Coach fetched the First Aid Kit from the wall and set about fixing Dean up. The kid didn't even wince as he applied the stinging healing balm, nor did he squirm as he used antiseptic to rinse away the dried blood. Coach gently wrapped his torso and back in gauze, taping it down with medical tape.

"If you have another bike accident, Dean," Coach said, putting away the kit. "You can tell me. Even if you don't want to tell me, I'll patch you up, okay?"

"Okay," Dean agreed, wiping the tears off his face with his shirt. He felt tremendously better now that his wounds were clean and bandaged. 

"Now get back out there," Coach said lightly, pushing Dean slightly on the shoulder. Dean managed a ghost of his former cheeky grin and stalked out of the locker room, his shoulders slumped and his head low. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment  
> Comment rn  
> I literally don't care what you comment  
> Just do it  
> Comment
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Why are you still reading this  
> You could be commenting rn  
> C O M M E N T


	3. The Impala

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't let Sammy drive, ever.  
> Also, please note that time progression is not linear in this story. At this point, Dean is about sixteen and Sammy is twelve, whereas in the last one they were 8 years younger. They will probably stay around this age for the remainder of the story, though.  
> Language warning.

"Dad's going to kill me!" Sammy sobbed, unable to staunch the flow of his tears with his sleeve. Or, should he say Dean's sleeve, as his brother had given him his sweater, assuring him that the twenty degree temperature didn't bother him. 

"It'll be fine, Sammy," Dean reassured him. Little did Sam know that fear was welling in Dean's stomach too, it was actually threatening to choke him at this point. Refusing to let himself scare Sammy even more, however, Dean fought to remain stoic as he steered the battered Impala into their driveway.

They had been driving on an old dirt road to pass a little time when Sam asked to drive. Dean tried his best to give Sammy everything he wanted, so he begrudgingly surrendered the driver's seat and pointed out the basics. Sam's foot had slammed on the accelerator just as a deer darted in front of the car, causing Dean to reach over and jerk the wheel harshly to the right. They swerved dangerously and hit a tree dead-on. The airbags, being as old as they were, did not deploy, but seeing as they hit the tree with the side of the car, there was very little damage done to Sam. Dean, on the other hand, had slammed against the car door, breaking one or two of his ribs in the process. He acted like he was fine in order to placate Sammy, but in reality, his torso was burning with agony, a new wave of pain cascading through him with every breath. 

The second Dean dimmed the headlights, John opened the door to their house, staggering a bit as he missed the last step of the porch. 

"Go inside, Sammy," Dean hurriedly whispered, fighting to walk normally rather than limp. 

"But, Dean-" Sam began to argue, fear dilating his pupils. 

Dean shot him his best comforting big brother look. "Go," he commanded. Sam nodded and complied, easily escaping John's notice as he went inside. Sam ran upstairs into their shared bedroom, fear and worry clutching at his frail little heart. 

"Wha the hell d'ya think ywer doin'?" John slurred, swaying on his feet as he pointed to a spot just right of the Impala. 

"It was my fault, Dad," Dean explained. "A deer came out of nowhere and I had to swerve to get out of its way."

"Too big a pussy to hit the damn thing, huh?" John taunted, taking a long pull from his flask. Dean didn't even bother to point out that if he hadn't moved out of the way, the deer would have just ruined the front of the car. 

"Yes, sir," he muttered. 

"Sammy could have gotten hurt," John exclaimed, trying in futility to drain the last few drops of his flask. Angry that he had run out of whiskey, he threw the flask at Dean, who easily ducked and dodged it. 

"Yeah, well, he didn't, did he?" Dean angrily said. He was growing so tired of this shit. 

"The fuck did you say to me?" John growled, staggering forward a few steps. Dean braced himself for a punch that soon came, hitting him square in the eye. He swallowed a cry of pain as John punched him in the chin. And again as he smacked him up the head. But Dean could not conceal his scream as John kicked at him, making contact with his broken ribs. Unable to stand, Dean crawled into the backseat of the Impala and locked the door before John could open it. He maneuvered himself into the front seat and locked every door as he went.

As John banged on his window, Dean sent Sam a text:  _I'm going for a drive, I'll be home in an hour or two. Lock your door and, no matter what, don't let Dad in. If he breaks the door, climb out of the window and climb down the drainage pipe like I showed you last week. Then go to Castiel's house, he'll protect you._

Castiel was Dean's sort-of-boyfriend, but neither Sammy nor John knew that. Sammy, because Dean didn't want to divulge that much of his personal life, and John, because he was a homophobic douchebag. They thought that Cas was just Dean's friend and neighbor.

Dean put the keys in the ignition and backed quickly out of the driveway, barreling down the street to the next town over, where Bobby lived. 

******************************************************************************************************

Bobby Singer was John's oldest friend. "Was", because he and John had gotten in a huge fight that ended with Bobby losing all of John's contacts. Dean and Sam, though, they talked to him often and were in his house as often as they were home. Because he lived just twenty minutes away, Bobby was always Dean's go-to guy when he was losing his shit or when John was on a rampage. They had spent the night there countless times, and Bobby's guest room was technically Sam and Dean's room.

Other than Coach Benny, who Dean was similarly close with, Bobby was the only person who knew John beat him. Dean had come to him four years ago in the middle of the night on his bike because he was losing a lot of blood really quickly. Bobby patched him up, gave him some pain meds, and kept Dean overnight. He had offered to "knock that son of a bitch's fucking head off" and was actually on his way to do so when Dean begged him not to. If they had a fight, Sammy would get caught in the crossfire, and Dean didn't want him to have to choose between his dad and Bobby. Dean knew he would choose Bobby in a heartbeat, but he still felt that he could protect Sammy better if they were both home. 

"Bobby!" Dean called, opening the door with the spare key he kept on a necklace. 

"Dean?" Bobby replied, coming out of the living room, a book in hand. Bobby was always reading, always lending Sammy books.

In lieu of an explanation, Dean simply lifted up his shirt and showed Bobby the blooming black, blue, and purple bruise that dominated the greater part of his side. 

"Boy, what the hell?" Bobby fumed, slamming his book down on the table. "I'm gonna kill that son of a bitch!" Bobby reached somewhere in the room (Dean couldn't see) and retrieved his shotgun. He started toward the door when Dean stopped him. 

"Bobby, no!" He exclaimed. "It wasn't Dad! Sammy crashed the car and I got a bit roughed up on the impact." Bobby looked unsure, and didn't lower his gun. 

"Boy, if you're lying to me-" He started

"I'm not."

Bobby sighed and set the gun against the wall. He beckoned for Dean to follow him in to the kitchen, and Dean complied. Bobby began rummaging in his medical drawer and Dean grabbed an unopened beer from the fridge.

"Take off your shirt," Bobby commanded. It was funny, Dean figured, that when his own father said that, it meant he was getting a beating but when Bobby said it, he was going to be healed. Hmm.

Dean obeyed and winced as the stretch of his abdomen caused a ripple of pain to emanate from his broken ribs. He sat silently, sipping his beer, as Bobby patched him up. It took the better part of an hour, but in the end, Dean's side was heavily bandaged and the pain medication was kicking in. 

"I'm assuming the car wasn't responsible for the shit on your face," Bobby sighed. Dean just shook his head, earning himself another disappointed sigh. 

"Dean-"

"Bobby, please," Dean said. "Not tonight. Thanks for everything, but I have to go get Sam now."

"Call me when this happens again, Dean," Bobby threatened, taking a beer of his own. Not "if" this happens again, like it had been with Coach Benny eight years ago. No, now it was "when" this happens again. 

"Anything you can do for the Impala?" He asked, setting his beer down and hopping of the kitchen table. 

"Bring her up to me Saturday, I'll fix her right up," Bobby said, clapping Dean on the shoulder. Dean nodded again and left swiftly through the door.

He got in the wrecked Impala and honked as he reversed out of the driveway. 


	4. Sammy Finds Out

Dean practically ran into his room, hurriedly kicking off his shoes as he dashed up the stairs. He was going to be late for his shift at Bobby's, and he couldn't afford to miss a paycheck this week. Bobby was always lenient with him, but he figured it best not to take advantage of that. 

He had lost track of time because he had been at Castiel's house. They had since become an item, but neither John nor Sammy knew about it. Dean just couldn't bring himself to come out, even to his little brother, despite him knowing that Sam would be totally okay with it. The only person he could talk to about Cas was Bobby, funnily enough. One day, he had come into the shop in a daze, feeling lovestruck and utterly invincible, and he realized he had a massive hickey on his neck and some pretty suggestive stains on his pants. Bobby had given him a shit-eating grin and asked him about the lucky guy. Dean told him to butt out, but he couldn't help but feel glad that Bobby wasn't a homophobic prick like John. 

Lost in thought, Dean didn't hear Sam open the door. He was putting on a new pair of ripped jeans, but his shirt was still off and his back was facing the door. He had always been careful to hide his back from Sammy, and from practically everyone. The only person who he trusted enough to see his scars was Cas, and his little angel didn't care at all. He was concerned, sure, but there was nothing he could do. After a bad day, he would just feed Dean ice cream and apply healing balm to his back. 

"Dean?" Sam's voice hitched as his eyes trailed over the mess of scars. His brother's back was littered with welts and newly healed lacerations. It was so clustered with these marks that there were very few areas where his unscathed skin shone through. Dean's heart fell through his stomach as he quickly turned around, trying to mask what Sammy had definitely already seen. 

"Hey, Sam," he said, trying and failing to put on a placating smile. It ended up as more of a grimace. "How was school?"

"Dean," Sam fixed his brother with a rare look of seriousness. "What happened to your back?"

"It's nothing, Sammy-" Dean stammered. Sam cut him off abruptly as he dropped his backpack and brought his brother into a tender embrace. His fingers brushed the damaged skin as he wrapped his arms around Dean, but he made an effort not to cringe at the touch. He didn't want to hurt Dean by appearing repulsed by these scars. 

"Was it Dad?" Sam's voice trembled as a tear dropped from his his eye. He pulled away from the embrace so he could Dean properly in the eye. Dean's throat was too dry and he didn't trust his voice not to break so he just nodded, sitting down on his bed as he pulled a shirt over his head. 

"Why didn't you ever tell me?" Sam choked, overcome with sympathy and pity and rage. If he could, he would get them out of that house and take them far away from their dad, but this was the only home they had. He was the only family they had. 

"It wasn't your problem, Sammy," Dean sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair. He had tried so hard to prevent this. 

"That's bullshit, Dean!" Sam exclaimed. Dean looked up in surprise, as it was so rare that Sam raised his voice at anyone. "You don't need to shoulder all of this yourself."

"What was I supposed to do, Sam?" Dean replied in frustration. "Let him hit you instead? You were just a kid."

"Some of those marks are new," Sam evenly said. "And I'm not a kid anymore."

Dean didn't reply to that. He just sighed again and began pulling on his boots. 

"Where are you going?" Sam asked. 

"To work," Dean apathetically replied. He hated running away from shit like this, but what was he to do? He certainly wasn't going to apologize for trying to protect Sam, no matter how defensive the kid got. 

"Like Hell you are," Sam said, crossing his arms. "We need to talk about this."

"Talk about what, Sammy?" Dean yelled, totally and utterly fed up with being attacked for doing something selfless. "What am I supposed to say? I'm sorry I let Dad hit me? I'm sorry I don't retaliate? What the fuck do you want me to say?"

"I want you to say it won't happen again," Sam said, the tears slurring his words a bit. "I want you to say that you won't let it happen again."

Dean's expression softened as he saw tears stain Sam's shirt. "I can't promise that, Sammy."

"You're eighteen, Dean! You can leave and you'll never have to deal with Dad again!"

"Yeah," Dean scoffed. "And leave you here with him? No freakin' way."

"You have a job, Dean," Sam said, ignoring Dean's words. "You can leave and get yourself a place."

"I will not leave you alone to deal with Dad all by yourself," Dean said, fighting to keep his anger under control. For such a smart kid, Sam was increasingly naive. 

"I'm not a kid anymore, Dean! I can deal with my own problems."

"But this isn't supposed to be your problem," Dean sighed, running a hand down his face in an attempt to stave off the tears. 

"But it's not yours, either," Sam argued.  

"Look, Sam," Dean said, picking up his jacket. "I'll talk to you when I get home, okay? I have to go to work or Bobby'll kill me."

Sam frowned but he relented, realizing that there was no use in arguing his point further. "Okay."

"I'll see you at nine. Call me if there are any problems with dinner."

"Okay," Sam stubbornly said. Dean nodded and walked out the door, closing it behind him.

Just as he was going down the stairs, he heard Sam throw a book against the wall in anger. He kept going. 

 


	5. The Bastard's Gone Too Far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for falling off the face of the Earth and not updating! I promise to be more consistent in the future

Dean blinked the sweat from his eyes as he finished his last tune-up of the day. He pulled his head out from underneath the hood with a sigh, tossing his wrench into the toolbox with a loud clatter. The sounds of the shop, the clanking and banging, grew all the louder once he was shaken from his mechanic-induced coma. It was one of the reasons he loved working for Bobby; the work was one of the few things that cleared his head. It was the therapy he had always convinced himself he didn't need. 

Dean wiped his greasy hands on his equally greasy jeans before pulling his phone out of his back pocket. His heart dropped into his stomach as he read the brightly lit screen.  _17 missed calls from Sammy._

Dean hit speed dial with urgency as he sped out to the parking lot. He didn't even bother saying goodbye to Bobby. The thought didn't even cross his mind. All that his mind could fathom was why his brother would need to call him so many times. If it had been a problem with dinner, he would have just called or text a couple of times before working it out himself. Dean couldn't help but imagine the worst possible case scenarios in his head. 

He drove the Impala with reckless abandon. The speed limit signs did nothing but encourage him to go faster, safety be damned. A light sheen of sweat had formed on his forehead and his hands were losing purchase on the steering wheel, they were so clammy. It was more than once that Dean had to remind himself to keep breathing. 

He pulled up to the house in a record time of ten minutes. As soon as the headlights hit the garage door, Sam came running out of the house, a hand pressed to his bloody cheek. His right eye was swollen and a stomach-churning shade of purple. Without a word, Dean stepped out of the car and pulled Sammy into his arms. He felt his heart break in two as his brother failed to stifle a sob. Dean rubbed a hand on Sam's back and his little brother hissed. With a surge of fury, Dean turned him around and lifted the hem of his shirt. Underneath, the skin was broken and bleeding profusely. Dean teared up. He had tried so hard to make sure Sam was never scarred the way he was. He had failed his little brother. 

"Stay here. No matter what happens, do not unlock the Impala doors until I come back. Okay?" Sam could only nod as he scrambled into the passenger's seat. 

Dean kicked the front door open, rage burning through his veins. The scars on his back seemed to ignite, bathing him in a fiery passion he had never known. Slumped at the kitchen table was John, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a belt in the other. When Dean broke the door, he jerked awake, causing several empty liquor bottles to fall to the floor and shatter. 

"What the hell're you doing?" John slurred, stumbling to his feet. He took several gulps from the nearly-empty bottle, draining it completely. When it was all gone, he frowned at the bottle as if he couldn't believe it. The disbelief turned to anger as John hurled the empty bottle at his son. Dean didn't even move, the throw was so far off. The bottle hit the wall several feet to Dean's right, shattering on impact. 

"You hurt him," Dean seethed, taking several bold steps forward, causing John to retreat back a few. 

"He deserved it. Little brat," John sneered, looking up at his first born. Only a few feet separated them now. 

"You're a fucking coward," Dean growled, all his typical fear replaced with anger. "You have always been a fucking coward."

"Don't you dare speak to me that way," John threatened, raising his hand. He went to smack Dean across the face, but the younger man ducked with ease. Dean drove a fist into his dad's beer gut, using every ounce of strength he could muster. He tucked his foot around John's ankle and swept his leg, causing him to fall to the ground with a thud. 

Once his father was vulnerable, Dean didn't hesitate to let his anger out. His knees atop John's shoulders, Dean drove fist after fist into his dad's face. His fists were soon flecked with blood and his knuckles were bruised, but the satisfaction was so much greater than the pain. Every ounce of his being was funneled into his fists. Every single mark on his back was ablaze with the fury and the pain that had threatened to consume him for so many years. 

Dean didn't even notice that John had fallen unconscious until exhaustion overtook him and he had to stop punching. His dad lay on the ground, blood running freely from his nose and lips. His two eyes were swelling rapidly, and Dean was sure that his nose was broken. He didn't feel an ounce of sympathy. 

Dean kicked his dad in the ribs for good measure before leaving. As his hand was on the doorknob, something possessed him to turn back. He looked over the limp body of John Winchester with grim satisfaction before stooping down to take his belt. 

 

He returned to Sammy, who had fallen asleep in the backseat of the Impala. Dean managed a small grin as he turned the key in the ignition and drove out of their driveway, never to return. 


End file.
